


Warning: Hitchhikers May Be Escaping Inmates

by thecheekydragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur POV, Canadian references, HMU, Handling Money Unprotected, Iron Will reference, M/M, Modern AU, Morgana is evil but the good kind of evil, copious use of hand santizer, dogs could be rabid wolves, eh!, escaping inmates, fishing is a dangerous pasttime, for the love of Gus, home and native land, ice cappucino, iphones are hardy, middle of nowhere, never stop to get food or drink while on the road, never use a public restroom, nothing like scented ethanol, pink bubble technique, relaxation techniques, sticking one's thumb out is a necessary condition for hitchhiking, timbits, triple triple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecheekydragon/pseuds/thecheekydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Merlin hitches a ride and Arthur is a tad OCD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warning: Hitchhikers May Be Escaping Inmates

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ on March 30, 2012.
> 
> Written for Grand Tournament at [merlin-games](http://merlin-games.livejournal.com) as a part of Team Modern! 
> 
> Based on this [photo prompt](http://i.imgur.com/zfxws.png).

When he sees the road sign announcing the exits for Kingston, Arthur cannot help but congratulate himself for his usual impeccable timing. It is Saturday mid-afternoon and he is already two hours into the first leg of his journey on route to spend a week-long respite at the Pendragon cottage on Tomiko Lake in northern Ontario. 

He had told Morgana that he would arrive at her place in Ottawa, ETA six p.m. dinner time (allowing for two breaks of approximately fifteen minutes each to stretch his legs and gently roll his shoulders, accounting for periods of heavier traffic, and adding in the expected unexpected), where he would spend the night. Then after a hearty brunch on Sunday with his sister and brother-in-law, and with his eleven-year-old nephew in tow, he would make the six hour drive to the cottage.

Arthur had, of course, meticulously planned his trip – as he did all things – and finds he is pleased that so far everything was going exactly the way he had mapped out, and this included the surprisingly light weekend traffic and the cool but sunny autumn weather.

Life is good, he decides.

He pushes the lingering nagging thoughts of whether he remembered to lock his door – he checked three times before finally getting into his car and leaving (this, too, had been accounted for in his trip plans) – and allows a satisfied smile. He’ll wait until he is on the other side of Kingston before pulling off to engage in his scheduled break and then he’ll continue for another couple of hours to Morgana’s. 

Something up ahead on the side of the highway catches his attention and he conscientiously slows down. At first glance it looks to be an animal but now, getting closer, it looks more like a body-shaped lump, khaki in colour (was that a hat and shoes?). It seems no other drivers are giving the lump much attention and, for a moment, Arthur is tempted to do the same. But since he has allotted time for the expected unexpected (and this seems to qualify as such), he pulls his BMW SUV carefully onto the shoulder, stopping a respectable distance of approximately twenty metres in front of the lump.

He puts the car in park and then sits there, glancing in the rear view mirror. From this viewpoint, the lump looks at lot less like an animal and a lot more like a body. Surely, Arthur thinks, it can’t be a homeless person sleeping it off on the side of the 401, or some poor soul whose remains were dumped there to rot? This was Canada - Arthur’s home and native land. Unfortunate road kill and tire strips from transport trucks found their way onto the shoulder of the highway, not people.

He stares at the lump for a full five minutes, trying to muster up enough nerve to get out of his car and have a look. By nature, Arthur is not a curious gawker but he feels it is his duty as a responsible citizen to make a cursory inspection of the lump, at the very least to rule out that it does not happen to be an actual body of a fellow citizen. Taking a deep breath, he unbuckles himself, removes his keys, opens his car door and carefully steps out, glancing cautiously at the cars driving past at a pace suggesting they are unconcerned about Arthur’s or the lump’s plights.

Arthur makes his way toward the khaki lump with equal measures of purposeful inquisition and cautious approach. First, he visually assesses the lump then prods it with the toe of his Ferragamo loafer. His brows furrow. The lump appears to be nothing more than an overstuffed army duffle bag, with a ball cap attached to one end and a pair of tattered trainers to the other. 

Immersed in this assessment and relieved that the lump is actually a bag and not a body, Arthur is taken by complete surprise when a body – _an actual body_ \- suddenly emerges from the roadside reeds, claims the duffle bag, and treks to his BMW, tossing a remark over its shoulder in Arthur’s direction.

“Thanks for stopping, eh! I thought I’d never get a ride!”

Arthur’s jaw drops and his eyes goggle as the body, belonging to a young man with a lean scrawny build and dark hair clothed in jeans and a black hoodie, opens the passenger door to his car, tosses his dirt-laden bag into Arthur’s backseat and climbs in.

How is it even possible that Arthur had forgotten to engage the locks of his vehicle after getting out to inspect the lump on the side of the road? Arthur Pendragon did not forget to lock things. He was _compulsive_ about locking.

Arthur does his best to shake off the shock and accompanying anxiety that comes with the sudden loss of control. There is a scrawny, dark-haired person claiming squatter’s rights in his passenger seat that needed attending to. He marches back to his car, reaching into his trouser pocket for the handkerchief to cover his palm with the cloth before pulling the outside handle of the car door.

He leans into the car to confront the scoundrel and is greeted by friendly blue eyes and a bright smile.

“Hi. I’m Merlin! Where you headed?”

“Young man...” Arthur begins, pocketing the handkerchief.

“Merlin,” the young man reminds with another disarming smile and Arthur notices that “Merlin” has already buckled himself into the passenger seat. “Uh, you might want to get in?” Merlin advises. He raises his eyebrows expressively, nodding toward the highway beyond. “Too many people get clipped that way.” 

Arthur glances over his shoulder at the moving traffic and decides that safety dictates he get into his car to carry out his impending censure. He settles into the driver’s seat and then turns to face the scoundrel.

“Look,” Arthur says crisply with clear intent to dissuade. “I am not in the habit of picking up hitchhikers.”

“Oh, I’m not a hitchhiker,” Merlin immediately counters.

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up.

Merlin shakes his head. “No, see – _hitchhiking_ involves hitching a ride by hanging on the side of the road and sticking your thumb out.” He mimes the action. “I never stuck my thumb out. So, clearly _not_ hitchhiking. Hence, not a _hitchhiker_.”

Arthur gives the guy a confounded look. “I really do not think sticking out one’s thumb is a necessary criterion for an action to be considered hitchhiking,” he states. 

“Oh, I think it is,” Merlin insists.

“It certainly is not!” Arthur mentally shakes his head and wonders if he is really having this conversation.

“Well, if you have an iPhone, we could look it up on Wikipedia,” Merlin suggests helpfully.

“We are not looking it up on Wikipedia!” Arthur huffs. He feels the exasperation rising and goes through the mental relaxation technique of reciting the alphabet backwards. 

“Then I guess it’s settled,” Merlin says, now grinning fully, and Arthur is at a loss as to how something so ridiculous had come to be ‘settled’.

Refusing to argue any further, Arthur opens the armrest caddy and selects the second bottle of the four lined up in the inner caddy – _Twilight Woods_ seems rather appropriate, he thinks – pops the cap and squeezes a quarter size amount of the hand sanitizer into his palm. He sets the bottle aside and then goes about rubbing the gel over his palms, then between his fingers, under his nails, over the backs of his hands and both sides of his wrists.

Merlin, he notices, is watching his ritual of hand cleansing with rapt attention, his eyes intensely focused, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. 

“Does that stuff really work?” he asks dubiously.

Arthur answers easily, “It’s a near proven fact that hand sanitizer that contains at least sixty percent alcohol is more effective than soap and water in preventing the transmission of bacteria.” He holds up the bottle of _Twilight Woods_. “This little gem happens to contain sixty-eight percent ethanol, with the added bonus of Tahitian Palm Milk to keep the skin conditioned.”

Merlin makes a ‘hmph’ sound then holds out his hand, palm up. “Might as well hit me with some then.”

As it happens, Arthur’s compulsion for cleanliness outweighs the logic that tells him that, if he ignores this person he might go away, and Arthur squeezes a good-sized dollop of bacteria-killing gel into Merlin’s palm. He carefully places the little bottle back into its spot in the line up while the self-proclaimed non-hitchhiker rubs his palms together.

“Smells nice,” Merlin murmurs appreciatively.

Arthur offers a noncommittal nod. It was one of his favourites.

Then, conceding that he is stuck with this Merlin person, at least for the time being (as the only other option would seem to be physically removing Merlin with his own recently sanitized hands and Arthur seriously questions the cleanliness of the guy’s hoodie – is that a grease stain or something else on the sleeve? – which makes physical extraction a non-option, really), Arthur pulls the seatbelt across his body, fitting the buckle securely into its mate. He slips his hand under the belt to check that there is the right amount of slack and makes adjustments accordingly. He double checks to make sure the lap part of the belt is sitting at the correct level and is snug but not too snug. He starts the engine. He puts his hands on the wheel at exactly the ten and two positions, checks his rear view mirror then his side view mirror. He pushes down the turn signal bar, places his left hand back at the ten spot, checks his side view mirror, rear view mirror, then side again. He sees headlights in the distance and waits. The car passes. He checks his mirrors again and sees no headlights even in the distance, checks to make sure he’s got his signal on, then begins to ease the car from the shoulder onto the highway.

“Good _God_ ,” he hears Merlin express from the passenger seat. “At this rate, we’ll never get to where we’re going!”

Arthur pushes down on the accelerator, slowly picking up his speed to match the speed limit. Without taking his eyes from the road, he tells Merlin, “ _We_ are not going anywhere. _You_ are getting dropped off at the next service centre and then _I_ am going on to Ottawa.”

Merlin makes a gleeful sound. “Sweet,” he says. “Ottawa is where I’m headed.” He seems to consider for a moment. “Might as well go along with you, eh? That way I can keep you company.”

Arthur takes his eyes off the road to glare sidelong as his passenger, then quickly focuses his attention back. “I don’t need company,” Arthur grouses, feeling all together put upon by this stranger. No where in his trip plan is there room for a companion – no matter how blue his eyes or how bright his smile.

“Oh come on,” Merlin says cheerfully. “Everyone likes company.”

Arthur doesn’t. He likes being alone. Time alone allowed him to think clearly and to do things the way he wanted. A companion, especially a new and strange one, put a kink into his solitary plans. 

“So,” Merlin continues, not taking the hint that Arthur isn’t the chatty type, “I’m Merlin. And you’re...?” he fishes.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur states tightly. He supposes it is only polite to provide that information. 

Merlin nods but says nothing, and for the next two and a half minutes Arthur is treated to blessed silence.

On the east side of Kingston, Arthur catches a glimpse of the sign pegged on the side of the highway: HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES. Kingston and the surrounding areas are home to several federal prisons. 

Without forethought, he slides a surreptitious glance at his passenger. Unfortunately, Merlin catches it.

“ _Really_?” he says. He sounds offended.

This makes Arthur grin, off-setting the worry line that creases his brown. He shrugs, noticing that Merlin’s shoulders are hunched, as if sulking. Arthur prays his passenger’s mood change will force a longer period of silence.

He thinks too soon. Merlin sulks for all of thirty seconds then squirms around restlessly in his seat. Apparently deciding that silence is a curse, he reaches his hand out to touch the music controls on the dash. Arthur watches in horror as Merlin’s hand flits across the buttons and knobs and a panic grips him.

He wants very much to slap at Merlin’s hand but there are two very important things to consider. First, it is not safe to take his hand from the wheel while driving, even if it is for a legitimate reason. And second, touching another person’s hand, even for only a fleeting moment, was a germ-spreading endeavour he did not wish to risk.

So Merlin is able to turn the knob to increase the volume, revealing the soothing voice of Shakti Gawain recounting the Pink Bubble Technique.

_“Now...surround your fantasy with a pink bubble and put your goal inside the bubble. Pink is the colour associated with the heart, and if this colour vibration surrounds whatever you visualize, it will bring to you only that which is in perfect affinity with your being...”_

Merlin lifts his brows as if to say ‘Seriously?’

_“Now imagine the bubble floating off into the universe, still containing your vision. This symbolizes that you are emotionally letting go of it. Now it is free to float around in the universe, attracting and gathering energy for its manifestation.”_

Arthur chances to take his hand from the wheel to stop the playing of the CD, his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. Or annoyance. Most likely both.

“A bubble could get _lost_ in the universe, though, couldn’t it?” Merlin remarks, breaking the sudden silence that has developed. 

Arthur expects Merlin to be mocking him but finds him to be at least superficially genuine. This does not make Arthur feel any better, and he returns to feeling annoyed and cranky when Merlin comments further, “So pink, eh? I didn’t realize pink had the ability to create affinity with one’s being.”

The word “ass” comes to mind in response to Merlin’s good-natured smirk but Arthur chooses to devote all his attention to the expansive road ahead.

Rather surprisingly, his uninvited passenger stays quiet for another twenty minutes (maybe the Pink Bubble Technique had worked its magic, after all) but raises a questioning eyebrow when Arthur begins to slow down and directs the vehicle toward an obscure off-ramp.

“Rest stop,” Arthur says, determined to keep to his carefully laid out travel plan. At the T-junction, he signals and then turns, heading in the direction where he knows he’ll find a quaint country store with a lonely gas pump.

“Wow, this is the middle of nowhere,” Merlin remarks as Arthur pulls the BMW up to the gas pump.

He shuts off the engine and unbuckles himself. “Going to stretch my legs while I get the car topped up,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin also unbuckles. He glances toward the store. “Think there’s a restroom?”

Arthur shrugs then shudders. Rule Number One when travelling on the road: Never use a public restroom. According to one study he read carried out by a research team at the University of Colorado, thousands of bacteria (streptococcus, staphylococcus, and E. Coli among them) could be found in public restrooms on toilet seats and handles, faucets, counter tops and floors, along with a potential variety of viruses. Arthur has long since trained his bladder to go great distances because there was absolutely no way he would risk using a bacteria-infested restroom at some rest stop. Merlin, on the other, could do as he pleased (so long as he thoroughly washes his hands before getting back into Arthur’s car).

While the attendant pumps gas into the fuel tank, Arthur wanders off to a small area of trees to stretch out his legs, leaving Merlin to take his chances in the store.

He is on his fifth repetition of backward shoulder rolls, eyes closed for optimal relaxation, when a resounding “crunch” sound breaks his reverie. He opens his eyes to find Merlin standing in front of him, munching from a grab bag of Lays potato chips.

“You’re not eating those in my car,” Arthur tells him. He moves around Merlin and steps into the store, paying for the gas with his credit card, which he hands to the clerk using his handkerchief. His gas purchase paid, Arthur returns to his car, gesturing to Merlin that he is ready to go. 

Arthur tries not to cringe as Merlin brushes chip crumbs off the front of his hoodie with his long fingers then runs his palms down the front of his jeans before he climbs into the BMW. Once settled in the driver’s seat, Arthur extracts the bottle of _Twilight Woods_ and squeezes a fair amount into his palm. He holds it out expectantly for Merlin, who turns up his palm obligingly, and squeezes enough gel into it to combat chip germs and anything else Merlin may have gotten up to while Arthur was involved with stretching his driving-taut muscles. They both rub the scented ethanol into and around their hands.

On the highway once more, Arthur decides that he will take Merlin all the way to Ottawa, though he doesn’t articulate this to Merlin, preferring to keep his passenger guessing whether Arthur will drop him off at the next opportunity. To minimize the possibility of car chatter, Arthur turns on the radio (low and to a station that plays soothing classical music) and gives Merlin a pointed look that strongly suggests he should not touch anything on the dash.

Listening to Wagner’s _Lohengrin, Prelude Act III_ Arthur is relaxed enough to admit that, despite the kink in his plans that Merlin has forced with his presence, the travel is going well and he should arrive at Morgana’s very close to his estimated time. Then, an hour and a half outside of Kingston, heading north on Highway 416, they hit a traffic jam of epic proportions.

During the tortuous half-hour internment caused by the traffic jam (Arthur is grateful he topped up his fuel), Arthur learns that Merlin is a senior biochemistry student at Queen’s aiming to pursue graduate studies for a career in pharmaceutical research (Arthur is quietly impressed). Arthur hears all about Merlin’s classes and the peculiarities of his professors (Merlin’s description of the ability of his lab supervisor, a fellow named Gaius, to cock his eyebrow in disapproval at an impossibly impressive arch, leaves Arthur to wonder if Merlin is prone to exaggeration). In fact, Arthur learns quite a bit about Merlin with respect to his purported academic and career goals but very little about his personal life, especially why the self-claimed non-hitchhiker is currently in his car and who or what might be waiting for him in Ottawa. 

“Playing truant from school this week then?” Arthur says, trying not to come off as sounding disapproving. It isn’t any of his business or concern what this young man (Arthur pegs Merlin as twenty or twenty-one to his twenty-eight years) did with his time.

“Fall break,” Merlin replies. 

Arthur has forgotten about the break in the fall term some universities in Ontario had instituted a few years ago. 

“So, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says conversationally once traffic thankfully starts moving again. Arthur almost gave up hope. “What is it that you do for a living?”

“I’m an accountant,” Arthur answers.

“No kidding,” Merlin remarks wryly. 

Arthur tosses him a look. “I happen to like numbers,” he defends, though he has no reason to justify his career choice. Accounting is a noble profession.

Merlin smiles and Arthur is momentarily struck by how charming his smile is. He mentally gives his head a shake. Arthur is not supposed to find smiles by self-proclaimed non-hitchhikers _charming_ , especially those of a twenty or twenty-one year old Queen’s biochem undergraduate (Arthur did his business degree in accounting at Schulich, thank you very much). He focuses his attention on the expanse of highway in front of him and tries not to think about Merlin’s dazzling smile. Or any other captivating feature for that matter.

It is past the dinner hour when they finally exit the ramp for Ottawa. Arthur drives into the city and then asks his passenger, “So, where should I drop you off?”

“Uh,” says Merlin, waving his hands and looking uncomfortable. “Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”

Arthur concentrates on the road for a minute then says, “Merlin. You don’t have any place to go here in the city, do you?”

Merlin squeezes one eye shut and grimaces. “Uh, not exactly,” he discloses.

“Then why did you tell me you were headed to Ottawa?”

Merlin shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s actually a little farther north I need to go. But since you were headed to Ottawa and obviously needed company on your road trip...”

Arthur huffs out a sigh. As tempting as it is to drop Merlin off “anywhere” as the young hoodwinker suggested, Arthur cannot, in good conscience, leave Merlin to the treacherous unknowns of the city streets. So he finds himself saying, “My sister has a sofa bed in her den you can crash on tonight.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says, smiling softly. Arthur pretends not to notice.

**

Morgana gives his cheek a peck then rubs the pad of her thumb across it to wipe away the cranberry solstice lip shade. She smiles at him, knowing that she is the only one in his life who can get away with this.

Leon gives a welcoming nod. The man knew to keep at least a five metre distance between himself and Arthur. He was Morgana’s husband, but he had gone to university with Arthur and was well acquainted with his friend’s peculiarities. 

“We were beginning to get worried,” Morgana says, her exquisitely plucked brows pinching together. They quickly expand to express surprise when she catches sight of Merlin, duffle bag over his shoulder, shuffling in behind Arthur. “Oh. Now who’s this?” she wonders.

“This is Merlin,” Arthur tells her minimally. “I told him you’d let him sleep on the couch in the den.”

“Yes, of course,” Morgana acquiesces, welcoming. She nods at her husband, communicating for Leon to show Merlin to the den. Arthur smiles, knowing it would be as simple as that.

“So,” Morgana says with a devilish smirk as Leon leads Merlin down the hallway. “Merlin. You didn’t say you were bringing a _friend_ along.”

Arthur is aghast. Did Morgana think Merlin was his _boyfriend_? 

“He’s not a friend,” he quickly clarifies. “He’s just someone I sort of picked up along the way.” Almost immediately, Arthur realizes this doesn’t sound much better.

Morgana raises her eyebrows. “Really now? It’s not like you, Arthur, to pick up hitchhikers.”

“He’s not a hitchhiker,” Arthur finds himself saying.

“No?” Morgana’s face shows amused confusion.

Arthur shakes his head. “Didn’t have his thumb out,” he says. “Apparently that’s a prerequisite.”

“Oh, I see,” Morgana returns. He can tell his sister is barely containing her laughter.

Leon returns with Merlin (sans duffle bag) and Morgana warms up plates of food leftover from dinner for both of them. She sets them on the dining room table, telling Arthur and Merlin to ‘dig in’ then calls up the stairs to Mordred, Arthur’s eleven year old nephew, to come down. 

Mordred, or Mordy as Morgana usually called him, slinks down the stairs, looking very put out and Arthur guesses Morgana has interrupted his nephew’s video game playing but that’s mostly because Mordred is still clutching a wireless controller in his hand.

“Uncle Arthur is here,” Morgana tells him, gesturing towards the dining room. “And he’s brought a friend. Go and introduce yourself,” she encourages.

Mordred rolls his eyes but moves into the dining room and grunt-murmurs something that translates roughly into “hello.” The kid directs a smile, though creepy, at Merlin and gives Arthur a suspicious look, which Arthur takes to mean “Why did you bring this guy along?” To be fair, though, it is a look that Arthur gets often from Mordred, which he is at a total loss to understand.

“Hi,” says Merlin with full force friendliness. “I’m Merlin. You must be Arthur’s nephew Mordred.” He nods at the controller in Mordred’s hand. “What game are you playing?”

Mordred mumbles something that Merlin apparently understands and Merlin engages the kid in conversation about “role playing” and “levelling up”. To Arthur’s surprise, Mordred actually takes a seat next to Merlin at the table and chats with him about video games and consoles, graphics and game play while Merlin finishes his warmed up plate of dinner.

Afterward, Mordred returns to his room and Arthur elects to head upstairs to the guest room to take a shower, anxious to rid himself of the layer of dirt and grime from the hours of travelling. He leaves Merlin to the company of his sister, who is already dragging Merlin towards the living room, probably intent on humiliating Arthur by showing Merlin pictures of him as a baby or him at prom in all his teenage awkwardness. He narrows his eyes at her in warning, but Morgana just smiles coyly and waves him up the stairs. Arthur sighs.

And, if before settling in for the night, Arthur happens to check the Correctional Services Canada website on his iPad to see if there are any reports of escapees from penitentiaries in the Kingston area, it is really just to be absolutely sure.

**

Arthur wakes the next morning to find Mordred standing next to the bed, staring at him with wide, creepy eyes.

“Mom says brunch will be ready in about a half hour,” he informs Arthur then, message relayed, he makes a hasty retreat from the guest room.

After showering (to get rid of the residual sweat and dead skin cells acquired while sleeping), Arthur dresses in crisp clean denim jeans and Oxford button down in light French blue, his chosen ‘vacationing’ clothes. He carefully tucks the Oxford into his jeans and secures his pants with the leather belt then painstakingly loosens the shirt two centimetres all around from the waistband of his jeans, giving him just the right amount of comfort. He folds his pants and shirt from yesterday and places them, along with his boxers and socks, into the designated “to be laundered” compartment of his luggage before heading downstairs.

In the kitchen, he finds Leon at the stove frying bacon and Merlin and Mordred at the counter dicing potatoes. Upon seeing him, Morgana puts a hand on his elbow and gently directs him into the dining room.

“Don’t be mad,” she tells him. “But I kind of invited Merlin along with you to spend the week at the cottage.”

“You what?” 

“Well, Mordy really seems to like him,” Morgana defends, “And you know he has a hard time warming up to people.” By “people” Morgana really means him in particular.

“I’m his uncle, Morgana!” Arthur complains, trying not to sound bothered. Arthur had been at the hospital when Mordred was born (Morgana had been nineteen and all alone; Leon hadn’t come into the picture until three years after), had never missed the kid’s birthday and was the Uncle of Awesome who bought his nephew all the up-to-date cool stuff. How was it that little Mordy had a hard time warming up to him?

Arthur looks at Merlin and Mordred huddled together at the breakfast counter, laughing over some shared joke. They _were_ getting on well.

“We don’t know anything about him, Morgana,” he argues nonetheless. “He could be an escaped convict or some poor soul who has wandered off from a mental institution.”

Morgana gives him an amused smile. “No, he couldn’t. You would have done a search for that before you went to bed last night.”

She did know him well.

Arthur sighs. “He doesn’t seem to be a threat so I suppose it can’t hurt to have him along,” he accepts then quickly adds, “For Mordy’s sake.”

Morgana pats his cheeky fondly. “I bet you’ll all get along just swimmingly,” she predicts.

The mention of swimming causes Arthur’s skin to prickle. Most people believe that the chlorine in swimming pools kills all germs but Arthur happens to know there is one particular parasite- _Cryptosporidium_ – that is quite resilient and highly infectious and, if contracted, leads to rather unpleasant intestinal issues. He hopes that the three of them don’t end up getting along like that.

After a full breakfast, Arthur loads his luggage along with Mordred’s and Merlin’s duffle bag into the back of his BMW. 

“So I hear you’re tagging along with us a bit longer,” Arthur comments to Merlin as he arranges and re-arranges the bags to his satisfaction.

Merlin flushes. “If you don’t mind,” he says. “I’ve never been to that part of Ontario.”

“And there’s no other place you need to be?” Arthur asks, shutting the hatch gate. _Like the fictional place ‘a bit farther north’ you claimed last evening_ , Arthur wants to add.

Merlin shakes his head and climbs into the passenger seat while Mordred secures himself into the backseat.

_This ought to be interesting_ , Arthur thinks as they collectively wave at Morgana and Leon, who are waving them off from the front porch.

**

The first hour of their journey passes with Arthur driving mostly in silence and Merlin and Mordred making friendly acquaintance ( _What grade are you in? You’re pretty smart, eh, if your mom is letting you take a week off from school? What’s your favourite all-time video game? Do you like music? Sci-fi or comedy shows?_ ) Somehow Merlin is able to learn more from Mordred in one hour than Arthur has been able to learn in the kid’s entire eleven years. Suddenly, he is glad that Merlin has come along on this trip, otherwise it would have been a very quiet car ride and perhaps an even quieter few days at the cottage.

“So is this like a yearly family thing?” Merlin finally asks him.

“Sort of,” Arthur responds. “We used to spend two weeks over the summer at the cottage - my father, me, Morgana. Now that we’re older and each has our own commitments, we try to get a week in during the fall around Thanksgiving. This year Morgana decided that Mordy should go. Something about male Pendragon bonding.” Arthur doesn’t know why he is telling Merlin all of this but he feels comfortable doing so.

“Ah,” says Merlin, his tone registering amusement. “And what kind of bonding activities do the Pendragon men do while vacationing at the family cottage?”

“The usual,” Arthur tells him. “Hiking, fishing, bonfires, the occasional challenge of a game of checkers or chess.”

“Oh, so you like to fish?”

“No.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Frankly, I find the whole fishing thing to be barbaric,” Arthur explains.

This piques Merlin’s interest. “To the fish, you mean?”

“No,” Arthur clarifies. “To the rest of us. Do you know the chances of getting a hook caught someplace that could result in minor or even major injury?”

Merlin shakes his head.

“Leaving out hooks to the eye and neck, which should _always_ be considered _very serious_ , a hook to the finger or hand can easily cause soft tissue damage,” Arthur tells him, “and might require stitches. Since you’re out in the middle of a _lake_ in a _boat_ ,” he adds emphatically, “you have to make sure to clean the puncture wound well to prevent infection. And all that marine bacteria floating about,” Arthur shudders, “only increases the chances of infection.”

He recalls the time when he was thirteen and had pierced his forefinger with a hook on a fishing outing with his father. Uther had had to take him to emergency in North Bay because Arthur had been convinced he’d develop _sportrichotic lymphangitis_ from harmful marine bacteria. And he very well could have had he not been treated right away.

“So if you don’t like to fish then...?”

“My father believes fishing makes for good father-son bonding,” Arthur explains dryly. He glances in the mirror at his nephew. “Lucky for me, my father has little Mordy to bond with now.”

He sees Merlin hide a grin and pretends not to notice Mordred frowning at him in the mirror.

**

Just north of Landry Crossing on Highway 17, about three hours away from their destination, inexplicably the engine light comes on. 

“It’s probably nothing,” Merlin says offhandedly, trying to dispel Arthur’s concern. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“It must be _something_ , Merlin,” Arthur replies, frowning at the lighted symbol on the dash. “Or it wouldn’t be _on_.”

Merlin only shrugs at this and Arthur contemplates whether he should exit the highway as soon as possible or wait until the next major exit and take the ramp. He decides that the problem could be ‘major’ and pulls off the highway at the next makeshift rest stop, a half moon dirt and gravel path through a cover of trees carved out by vehicles making impromptu stops. He’ll park and then call roadside assistance. He realizes this will put them slightly off-schedule for arriving at the cottage, but safety dictates that this is the best course of action.

“Pop the hood, eh, and I’ll have a look,” Merlin says, already getting out of the vehicle, Mordred following behind. “Could just be a faulty fuse or a loose cap or something.”

Arthur stammers but pulls the hood release anyway. He gets out of the car also, scrolling through his iPhone for the number for roadside assistance. He hopes the problem can be fixed quickly so they can get back on the road as soon as possible.

Merlin is slouched under the hood, peering intently at the engine. Mordred is pressed close beside him, the young apprentice observing the master. Arthur promptly dials roadside assistance, hoping to connect with an expert before the budding biochemist and his sidekick fiddle with something they shouldn’t.

No service. _How can there be no service?_ he wonders. His provider was a leader in mobile phone service.

“I think I see the problem,” Merlin announces and Arthur frantically taps out the numbers again.

No connection. Still no service. He feels an attack of anxiety coming on.

Arthur paces, contemplating the likely consequences of Merlin fixing “the problem” he purportedly sees, as he alternately redials. He breaks out in a sweat on his fifth unsuccessful attempt to connect with roadside assistance. His anxiety jumps up a notch as Merlin announces the problem “solved” and pushes the hood of the car down in satisfaction. Understandably, then, Arthur is caught completely off-guard when a great mass of unkempt fur leaps at him, knocking Arthur to the ground and sending his iPhone sailing.

_What the hell?_ Arthur thinks, trying to catch up to his current predicament. He notes with alarm the massive paws and torso of a mangy wolf – quite possibly rabid – that are pressing down on his chest. The beast looks to bear its fangs before slathering a disgusting tongue over Arthur’s horrified face.

“Aack!” he yells out in distress. “Get this thing off me!”

The beast gets a few more licks in before Merlin is able to wrestle it off him. He helps a shaken Arthur to his feet.

Arthur glances warily at the beast, which seems now to have set its sights on little Mordred. “Careful, Mordy,” he cautions. “That wolf might be rabid.”

Merlin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. “It’s not a _wolf_ , Arthur,” he says. “It’s just a dog. Some kind of husky mix looks like.”

“But it has fangs!” Arthur argues, looking down and assessing the damage done to his favourite Lands' End Oxford. Mud streaks are distressingly visible everywhere he looks.

Merlin laughs. “Of course he has fangs,” he retorts. “So do you. In dental vernacular they’re called _incisors_.” As though suddenly becoming aware that Arthur is clearly distressed, Merlin asks concernedly, “Are you okay?”

Arthur says nothing for a beat, wondering why Merlin needs to ask such a ridiculous question when it is damn crystal clear he is _not okay_. Then he utters crisply through gritted teeth, “No, Merlin, I am not okay. I was just accosted by a filthy mutt you claim is a dog but has all the features of a member of the lupine family, including but not limited to, fanged _incisors_ intended for carnivorous feasting.” He draws a deep breath. “And in case you haven’t noticed, my shirt is ruined and I have wolf-dog slobber all over my face. I would kindly ask that you fetch a bag in the event I may need to throw up.”

Merlin is looking at him with all due seriousness now and Arthur wonders if it was the mention of possible vomiting that did the trick. He soon finds Merlin directing him to the back of the BMW, where he pops the hatch and tells Arthur to “sit here for a minute”. Arthur does so while Merlin goes to the front seat, pokes around, and returns with the little bottle of _Orchard Leaves_ – number four in his line up of sanitizers.

He tells Arthur to unbutton his shirt as he roots around in his own duffle bag, coming up with a well-worn but clean t-shirt. Merlin squeezes some of the gel onto the cotton jersey material and then uses it as a cloth to wipe Arthur’s face clean of the traces of mud and slobber. He applies some sanitizer to Arthur’s neck and collarbone, trailing the cloth briefly over Arthur’s chest.

“That should do it until you can have a proper shower,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling as he smiles. Arthur feels something in his chest (and maybe a little further down) swell. “Now let’s get you out of this soiled shirt and into a clean one.”

He helps Arthur shrug out of the dog-battered shirt then hands him the bottle of sanitizer. Merlin folds the shirt and places it among his own belongings to “avoid contamination of Arthur’s clean items”. Arthur goes about thoroughly cleaning his wrists, hands and nail beds with the sanitizer while Merlin very carefully picks through Arthur’s luggage for a clean replacement shirt.

“Tell me you didn’t iron this,” Merlin says, holding up a meticulously folded, exquisitely laundered, and painstakingly pressed long-sleeved heavy cotton shirt in a rich hue of navy blue.

“Okay, I won’t,” Arthur returns, starting to feel more relaxed now that he is covered almost head to toe in germ-fighting scented ethanol. He takes the shirt from Merlin, shakes it out then pulls it over his head, grateful that the blush that creeps up in response to Merlin catching an eyeful of his bare chest is momentarily hidden.

“Oh, and the engine light should be off now,” Merlin says as he leaves Arthur to the task of tucking his shirt into his jeans and makes his way to climb into the passenger seat. “Just a loose cap, like I said.” 

Arthur has his doubts but he is too overwhelmed at this point to care. He reaches into his luggage and carefully restacks the items of clothing so that the piles are relatively equal in height, zips the bag closed, and secures the hatch. He goes to the driver’s side, pulls open the door handle with a handkerchief-covered hand and settles into the seat, determined not to let this little setback affect his mood. After all, he is supposed to be on vacation. 

A panting sound close to his ear catches his attention. Arthur turns in his seat and finds the wolf-dog hovering over the console from the backseat.

“Oh, hell no!” he objects loudly.

Arthur glances in the mirror to see Morgana’s offspring cross his arms stubbornly against his chest and glare at him. 

“Now Mordred,” Merlin attempts to intervene. “You know Uncle Arthur likes everything neat and tidy. And I’m just not sure Gus fits into that vision--”

“Gus?” Arthur asks crankily.

Merlin nods toward the wolf-dog who continues to pant and slobber all over Arthur’s immaculately clean upholstery. “Gus is the name Mordy gave him. You know, like the dog in _Iron Will_.”

Arthur doesn’t know and, besides, his last nerve is beginning to fray. “Oh, really. And when did he decide that? Before or after I was attacked by the mangy beast?”

Merlin narrows his eyes, looking positively insulted by Arthur’s remarks. “Gus did not attack you! He just wanted to get to know you! He’s obviously been abandoned and he’s lonely.”

Arthur presses a hand to his forehead and slowly counts back from twenty. Then, he quietly exits the vehicle, leaving his nephew, his tag-along companion, and _Gus_ to sulk.

He walks a few paces and goes through some mental relaxation exercises to relieve some of his pent-up frustration, making a note to book more time with his therapist upon his return from vacation.

_Relaxing soles of the feet...toes...ankles...joints...Legs from ankle joints to knee joints...knee joints to thigh joints...Relaxing pelvis...abdomen...mid-section...and chest._

By the time he gets to relaxing his gums, teeth, tongue, hard and soft palate, and throat, he is ready to get back in the car.

Merlin slides him a cautious look as Arthur settles once more into the driver’s seat. Arthur goes through the ritual of buckling himself in, telling Mordred to “secure the beast” and to “make sure he doesn’t slobber all over my car”. To his surprise, “Gus” obediently parks himself on the backseat, allowing Mordred to actually pull and secure the seatbelt around his canine body.

Arthur thinks he sees Merlin give a surreptitious grin but is too busy checking his mirrors and manoeuvring the vehicle forward to be certain.

An unmistakable crunching sound causes Arthur to stop. He closes his eyes and exhales loudly. “That was my iPhone, wasn’t it?” he says with knowing dread.

Merlin opens the passenger door and peers out. “Think so,” he concurs then unbuckles himself and gets out to check. He returns with Arthur’s phone in hand, his face cringing with sympathy. The phone’s backing is scratched and scuffed and the screen is cracked, shattered toward the outside edges. Merlin tentatively touches a long finger to the screen.

“Hey, look at that,” he remarks. “It still works!” He gifts Arthur with a mirthful grin, his eyebrows shooting upward, impressed. 

Arthur gives a laugh that is borderline hysterics. Whatever hell he has entered, at least he’s got a working iPhone. Though getting service in this godforsaken neck of the woods may pose a problem.

He starts the engine and finds, true to Merlin’s words, that the engine light no longer comes on. Arthur takes this as a sign that things are looking up, and guides the vehicle forward, once more on route to their destination. And if he’s acquired an extra passenger, one that is furry and disgustingly dirty, well, that’s one more to keep Mordred entertained.

**

Arthur pulls off to fill up with gas when they reach the Deep River exit. Since he’s already had the opportunity to tango with a husky, he figures he can forgo his scheduled roll-the-shoulders-and-stretch-the-legs break and just do some deep breathing and mental relaxation exercises while the attendant pumps the gas.

“I could really go for a coffee right about now,” Merlin hints when the tank is full and Arthur pulls out from the gas station.

Rule Number Two: Never stop to get food or drink while on the road. Not only does this contribute to the successful adherence to Rule Number One (Never use a public restroom), but it eliminates any chance of unnecessary germ exposure.

But Merlin is giving him the most adorable smile and his eyes are really very blue (and never mind those eyelashes) so Arthur finds himself steering the BMW into the drive-thru of a nearby _Tim Hortons_ coffee shop. 

“Extra large triple triple for me,” Merlin tells him and Arthur can’t help but grimace as he makes a mental note of the sugar and cream content in Merlin’s order, amounting to a whopping four hundred and twenty calories and forty-six percent fat. “What?” Merlin questions, frowning, and Arthur shakes his head.

“Medium ice cap for me,” calls Mordy over Arthur’s shoulder. “And Gus wants a ten pack of timbits.”

Gus pants his agreement.

Arthur relays the order into the speaker box, waits for confirmation then pulls ahead.

Merlin is holding two five dollar bills ready to hand over to Arthur.

Arthur stops the car at the pick-up window and shifts it into park. He lifts the lid of the armrest caddy and pulls out the latex glove he has stashed in a side compartment next to the neat row of sanitizers. He slips the glove barrier over his left hand then holds it out to accept the bills from Merlin, determinedly ignoring the look his passenger is giving him.

The drive-thru attendant is waiting patiently as Arthur turns and hands her the money. Her eyebrows flick upward briefly but she promptly makes change and places the returning coins into Arthur’s glove-protected hand. Arthur drops the money into Merlin’s palm then collects the order. One extra large triple triple for Merlin. One medium iced cappuccino for Mordred. And one box of timbits for Gus. He peels off the glove, places it back into the caddy, shifts the car into drive, and pulls ahead.

It takes Merlin a full five minutes after they are back onto the highway and several sips of his coffee before he ventures to ask, “What the hell was _that_?”

“Germs, Merlin,” Arthur replies, feeling as though he is stating the obvious. Arthur glances in the rear view mirror and gives a stern admonishment, “And Gus better not be getting bits all over the backseat.” He focuses his attention back to Merlin. “Money, especially paper money, is full of bacteria, viruses and spores,” he informs him. “If you’re looking to catch a bout of gastroenteritis, handling money unprotected is the way to do it.”

Merlin snorts. “Gosh, I hadn’t thought of HMU.”

“HMU?” Arthur is confused.

Merlin nods, his look deadpan. “Handling Money Unprotected.”

Mordred giggles and slurps his iced beverage loudly.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Scoff if you will, Merlin,” he says, shifting his gaze briefly to the take out coffee cup Merlin is cradling piously in his hand. “But the same person who collected your money- _HMU I may add_ – also made and fixed the lid onto your coffee. Do you know how much bacteria can be transmitted in that little transaction?”

Merlin frowns. “No, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me,” he says sulkily. 

He continues to sip his coffee as Arthur regales him over the next thirty-six kilometres with reports of research in the field of environmental microbiology concerning the bacterial contamination of common public and household items.

To his credit, Merlin remains silent and listens solemnly. And to Arthur’s surprise, Merlin drinks back every last drop of his triple triple.

**

It is forty-seven minutes later than Arthur has estimated when they finally pull up to his family’s cottage.

Merlin lets out an appreciative whistle. “Wow. When you said cottage, this was not what I was expecting.”

Arthur supposes the term “cottage” is a little understated given the square footage and the comfort features of his family’s house on the lake. 

Mordred and Gus tumble out of the backseat as Arthur and Merlin alight from the front. Gus immediately dashes into the trees to relieve his canine bladder, while the three unload and carry their bags into the cottage.

“The dog needs to get cleaned,” Arthur pointedly directs at Mordred, “and I need to shower.” He can still feel a layer of dog-slobber on his skin.

He tells Merlin and Mordred to carry their bags up to the loft while he carries his own to the master suite. His father is not due to arrive until Wednesday and it had been planned that Arthur would take the master bedroom these first couple of nights then move up to the loft with Mordy once his father arrived. With Merlin here now, the arrangement would have to be slightly altered. 

Arthur takes a long, hot shower in the en suite bath, redresses in clean jeans and shirt then carefully unpacks and painstakingly hangs his clothes in the closet or folds them neatly into dresser drawers. This takes the better part of thirty minutes. He hears the faint hum of what sounds like a hairdryer through the walls and idly wonders if Merlin or Mordred had decided there was need for a shower too.

He emerges from the master suite feeling refreshed if not totally relaxed and is met by Merlin and Mordred, both looking flushed and wet, coming around to the living room area with a freshly washed and fluffed Gus in tow, a triangle of red fabric (was that a dishtowel?) hanging from his neck.

Arthur lifts his eyebrows.

“You said he had to get cleaned,” Mordred says in answer. “So Merlin helped me spray him down in the shower.” Merlin gives a sly smile. “We used shampoo and then dried his fur some.” He gestures toward the dog as if presenting him as a show piece. Merlin’s smile grows wider.

At least Arthur can admit (to himself, of course) that Gus looks rather fashionable with his dishtowel bandana, or whatever it’s supposed to be.

They go into the town of Crystal Falls to buy groceries for the week, leaving Gus to “guard” the car in the parking lot ( _no, Mordy, we can’t pretend he’s a seeing-eye dog and bring him into the store with us_ ). When they return to the cottage, Arthur makes them dinner (Gus gets a bowl of the premium dog food Arthur was coerced into buying) and then they relax on the sofa and armchairs in the living room for the evening, content to gaze at the moonlit surface of the lake through the floor to peaked ceiling window.

When Arthur finally retires to bed, Merlin and Mordred and Gus tucked away in the loft above him, he finds he is relaxed enough to fall asleep quickly and soundly. 

And if some time during the night when he rolls over and he becomes vaguely aware of a warm furry body stretched out beside him, emitting low rumbling snoring dog noises, it is not enough to rouse him from his peaceful slumber.

**

“Granddad can’t make it,” Arthur tells Mordred at breakfast. “Unfortunately, he’s been delayed on business.” His father had rung the cottage early that morning to give Arthur the news. 

Mordred’s face scrunches up with disappointment. “Who’s going to take me fishing now?” he complains.

“I can take you,” Merlin offers and Arthur tosses Merlin a dubious look. Even Gus groans his doubt.

Arthur watches Merlin and Mordred struggle with getting the fishing rods out of the shed down by the dock for all of five minutes before giving in and deciding to join them. He pulls on his navy Land’s End sweater and a windbreaker and heads outside into the cool autumn air. He skirts around the two at the shed, collects two fishing rods and the box of tackle, and motions for Merlin and Mordred to follow him to the docked canoe. His father had arranged to have a trusted local clean and set things up before their arrival so Arthur knows everything is ready for them.

He helps Mordred into the boat and encourages Merlin to get in as well, handing off the fishing equipment. Gus refuses to be left behind and whines pathetically until Arthur gives the dog permission to jump in too.

Arthur insists that everyone wear a lifejacket (except Gus but only because there is none that will fit him) and helps Mordy pull on and fasten his. Then he tugs on Merlin’s to make sure the jacket is secure. Drowning will not be an option today.

It turns out that Merlin knows nothing about fishing. So Arthur demonstrates to both Mordy and Merlin how to bait a hook with tackle (taking extra care to explain the importance of avoiding getting hooked) and to cast (again with corresponding safety precautions). He also explains (especially to Mordy) that fishing requires great patience – waiting for a bite can sometimes seem like an eternity. Learning techniques to make the time pass while keeping yourself aware so you’ll feel a subtle bite, take both patience and practice.

So Mordy and Merlin wait. As time passes, Arthur notices Merlin shivering, his hoodie and the lifejacket poor defences against the cool air. His hood is already pulled up around his head but his lean frame appears unable to retain any warmth. 

Arthur removes his lifejacket and pulls off his windbreaker, gesturing to Mordred (who is bundled in layers and cosily warm) to trade places with Merlin so that Arthur can slip the yellow windbreaker over Merlin. He replaces and refastens his lifejacket, feeling plenty warm in his sweater.

Merlin murmurs a thank you and settles in to wait for any signs of a bite. He only has to wait another eight minutes before there’s a tug on his line indicating that a fish has taken bait.

“What do I do?” Merlin asks excitedly.

“Give the rod a short, quick jerk up, then start reeling in,” Arthur instructs, miming the actions with his hands to encourage him.

Merlin does as he’s told but things go awry in a matter of minutes. First, Merlin jerks the rod too strongly and somehow ends up knocking the butt of the rod into Arthur’s face. He’s immediately apologetic and he starts flailing, his elbows jabbing haphazardly into Arthur’s chest and abdomen. Caught unaware and trying to protect himself from the flailing, Arthur shuffles back, losing his balance, and against the very laws of human motion, Arthur finds himself knocked over the side of the boat and into the cold water of the lake.

The lifejacket keeps him buoyant. But it’s not fear of drowning or even the frigid water that most disturbs him. Arthur tries very hard not to think of the teams of marine bacteria potentially seeping through and clinging to his clothing.

With Merlin and Mordred’s help, he hauls himself out of the water and back into the canoe. In the process, he somehow catches a splinter on the underside of his right wrist and curses.

Merlin and Mordred stare at him, wide-eyed and frozen as he lay in the boat – wet, cold and contaminated. 

“Hate fishing,” Arthur grumbles through chattering teeth. Gus barks out sympathy then weaves around Merlin to nuzzle against Arthur.

Suddenly, Merlin and Mordred are spurred into action and they begin paddling furiously. They lack rhythm and are hopelessly uncoordinated but, by the grace of God or some celestial being, they make it back to the cottage dock. 

Fishing for the day is officially over.

**

Arthur takes a long, hot shower, scrubbing his body head to toe to eliminate any marine bacteria that could possibly cause a skin infection. Afterward, with some resistance and grumbling, he lets Merlin look at his wrist and allows him to take tweezers to carefully remove the splinter then coat the ‘wound’ with antibiotic cream. Merlin’s touch is gentle, soft, and caring and Arthur thinks he could get used to this. He shoves the thought aside. At any rate, Merlin makes a far better nurse than a fisherman.

Mordy and Merlin are somehow able to coax Arthur into having a camp fire in the evening after dinner and Arthur supposes this is only because he is still feeling the after effects of trauma from the fishing outing. As a rule, he doesn’t particularly like camp fires (there are serious hygienic issues) and the idea of cooking wieners or roasting marshmallows over an open fire makes him just shy of physically ill.

“What?” Merlin says, opening the bag of marshmallows with glee and tossing a few over to Mordy. “How can anyone _not_ like roasted marshmallows?” 

“It’s a sugar and corn syrup confection,” Arthur says pointedly. “On a stick. That you picked up in the woods.” Arthur jerks his thumb to the woods beyond for emphasis.

Merlin grins at him, poking a marshmallow onto the end of a twig stick. Then his face turns serious, as though indicating marshmallow roasting is an activity that requires concentration and skill. Arthur tries not to roll his eyes.

Arthur watches Mordy ‘teach’ Gus to sit and ‘shake a paw’, rewarding him with unroasted marshmallows. “He’d better not puke those up later,” Arthur tells his nephew, frowning. 

Gus barks a response that Arthur isn’t sure how to interpret. 

Merlin takes advantage of Arthur being momentarily distracted and plucks the roasted confection from his stick and pops it into Arthur’s mouth.

“Merlin!” Arthur spats around the hot gooey mess.

Merlin grins. “It’s good, eh?” He spears another marshmallow onto his stick. “Here, I’ll roast you another.”

Arthur glares at him and manages to swallow the roasted marshmallow. And if doesn’t tell Merlin that maybe roasted marshmallows aren’t so bad after all, it’s because he doesn’t want Merlin to smirk in satisfaction.

**

Arthur takes Merlin and Mordred with Gus in tow on a hike in the woods, following the path that his father had taken both he and Morgana many times. It is familiar territory and Arthur finds that he enjoys playing guide, offering information about points of interest and dispensing appropriate safety tips.

They are on a path that runs parallel to a ravine leading down to the lake. Merlin is ahead of them, looking about, revelling in the wonder of nature. He looks like a child happily in awe and Arthur finds himself smiling at the thought. He likes when Merlin’s eyes light up and his mouth curves into a smile. Gus lets out a bark and Arthur turns his gaze toward the dog and Mordred. It seems Gus is trying to make friends with a chipmunk and Arthur doubts somehow that the relationship will take hold, if the chipmunk’s wary stance is anything to go by. When he turns his attention back to the path ahead, Merlin is gone.

_What the hell?_

Arthur jogs up to the spot where Merlin had just been.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls out and receives a response from a hard-to-gauge distance down the ravine. He directs an “Are you okay?” down toward the spot where Merlin’s voice comes.

“I’m okay,” Merlin calls up. “Ugh. Wait. No, I’m not.” A couple of beats go by. “Think I twisted my ankle.”

_Oh, for the love of Gus_.

Gus barks and Mordy makes to dash down the ravine but Arthur grabs the hood of his nephew’s jacket and yanks him back. 

“Merlin needs help,” his nephew protests.

“Yes, but _I_ will be the one to go down and help him,” Arthur says with reason. “You and Gus stay here and don’t move,” he instructs further. He doesn’t need the added complication of Mordy or Gus tumbling down the ravine along with Merlin.

Arthur works his way down the slope, holding on to tree branches for support and anchorage. When he reaches Merlin, he finds him sitting in a dip of the sloped earth (which probably stopped him from tumbling further but probably also contributed to the twisting of his ankle), leaves and twigs jutting out at various spots in his hair. Arthur admits Merlin would look adorable in any other circumstance.

“Sorry,” Merlin offers with a shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know how this happened. I was just trying to get a look at some purple flower and...” He rolls his hands in a tumbling gesture.

Arthur helps Merlin up, mindful of the gradient. “Can you put any pressure on it?” he asks, nodding toward the foot Merlin is favouring. 

Merlin shifts weight onto his left foot and winces. He shakes his head and looks forlorn.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “I’m going to have to carry you up somehow.” He looks at Merlin and then up the slope. He had come down approximately twenty or twenty-five metres. Not a great distance but the slope definitely adds a factor that will make the climb back up with Merlin more arduous. 

He positions himself lower on the slope than Merlin and tells him to climb on his back. Merlin makes a protest and Arthur tells him, “I can’t carry you any other way. So get on.”

Merlin does, awkwardly and with obvious reluctance. Given Merlin’s lean body, Arthur expects him to be lighter but Merlin apparently packs some weight on his scrawny frame. Still, Arthur is reasonably fit and athletic and if he thinks of Merlin as a heavily weighted backpack, he might be able to do this.

The climb up is slow and difficult. It doesn’t help that Merlin spends most of the climb intermittently apologizing for tumbling down the ravine and telling Arthur to watch for stray branches and tree roots underfoot. 

They finally reach the top, where Mordy and Gus are waiting, and Arthur drops Merlin to the ground (he would say ‘gently’ but Merlin might say otherwise) to catch his breath. From the dirt and mud that are covering Merlin’s body, Arthur would guess that his Land’s End cable knit sweater in Oatmeal Heather is destined to suffer the same unsalvageable fate as his now lake-ruined navy sweater. 

After giving himself a full five minutes to regain his stamina, Arthur invites Merlin to climb onto his back again and they make the trek back to the cottage. Arthur fully intends to take another long, hot shower after tending to Merlin’s ankle and to suggest Merlin do the same.

** 

Merlin is ensconced in the armchair, his foot propped up on the ottoman, an ice pack resting against his swollen ankle. Arthur is happy to see that Merlin is obeying his orders to ‘stay put’ and to ‘elevate and ice’ his ankle. Mordy and Gus are outside playing a game of ‘fetch a stick’ and Arthur idly wonders if his nephew and the dog are taking turns at this but finds he doesn’t want to know the answer.

He sits on the edge of the ottoman and lifts the ice pack from Merlin’s ankle. The swelling has gone down some and purple bruises are starting to show.

“Look,” he says, his tone concerned. “I think it’s probably best if we cut this trip short.”

Merlin looks pained. “I don’t know. Mordy will be really disappointed,” he argues and Arthur wonders just when his non-hitchhiking passenger had become embedded into his life such that the potential disappointment of Arthur’s nephew caused Merlin concern. 

“He’s eleven,” Arthur reasons. “He’ll have plenty of opportunities to do this again.” 

He waits a couple of beats before saying, “Can I ask now, Merlin, where it is you are supposed to be heading?”

“About that...” Merlin says and Arthur gives him an encouraging nod to continue. He had been expecting this. “The truth is,” Merlin blurts out and doesn’t stop pouring out his story after this initial start. “I was evicted from my apartment because my roommate decided to fuck off and not pay his half of the rent and had caused quite a bit of damage to the apartment by throwing these wild parties. So I got thrown out on my ass along with him. I’m on scholarship at the university but I had a job to pay for rent. I was late to work a few times after I got evicted because, you know, I had trouble finding half-decent places to sleep at night – let me tell you Kingston Pen was looking good for a while – and I got fired. So now I have no place to live and no job. On top of this, my mom is very sick and she can’t help fund my education or living expenses. I was going to go home – which is Smith Falls, by the way- but I didn’t want to make her sicker out of worry for me.” 

Merlin lets out a heavy sigh, probably relieved to have finally unburdened himself. “When you picked me up,” he confesses, “I was at a point where I didn’t know what I was going to do.” He looks at Arthur with those beautiful blue eyes and those long magnificent lashes. “You were nice even if you were all kinds of weird,” He makes an elusive gesture that could be interpreted in many ways, “and I just...I don’t know. It just seemed right to go along with you.” He glances down almost shyly, it seems.

Arthur gives him a look and then says, “Did I just hear you say that I picked you up? Are you finally admitting that you were _hitchhiking_?”

“Did not have my thumb out,” Merlin insists, grinning. “Besides, out of all that I’ve just rambled on about, that is the thing you selected out?”

Arthur shrugs. “That other stuff I can take care of,” he tells him.

Merlin raises a questioning eyebrow and Arthur feels a blush threatening to creep up. 

“Can’t have you thinking about prison as your next place of residence,” he says in response.

Merlin leans in toward him and it is one of the first times that Arthur does not instinctively draw back. “I want to kiss you,” Merlin says, glancing at Arthur’s lips and licking his own. “But you’re probably going to make me douse my lips with an antiseptic solution before any hope of that, eh?”

Arthur chuckles. “I might be willing to chance it,” he says, delighting in the way Merlin’s pupils dilate. 

So Merlin presses his mouth to Arthur’s and they kiss, slow and cautious. Merlin’s lips are soft and warm and interestingly delicious and Arthur thinks that this is also something he could get very used to. 

When they pull back, they stare at each other for a moment, just looking, feeling. Then Merlin grins and says, “So I’m guessing a little tongue action is out of the question?”

Arthur can’t stop himself from chuckling and grinning. “Baby steps, Merlin,” he tells him. 

Merlin grins dopily back, his blue eyes positively sparkling. “Yeah.”

**

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: This story is a Canadian Modern AU. All places and highways mentioned are real. There are twelve federal prisons in the province of Ontario; Kingston Penitentiary is the oldest prison in Canada; it is a maximum security federal prison for men. Queen’s refers to Queen’s University, which is located in Kingston, Ontario. Schulich refers to the highly esteemed School of Business at York University, located in Toronto. Tim Hortons is a popular coffee shop franchise found throughout Canada established by Tim Horton, a professional Canadian hockey defenceman. “Triple Triple” is a commonly used phrase to denote coffee taken with three sugars and three creams; “timbits” are similar to donut holes. Shakti Gawain is a real person, a proponent of personal development achieved through creative visualization and greater self-awareness; she is the author of several print and audio books and has given numerous seminars. The santizers described are part of the Bath and Body Works collection. Lands' End is a high-end line of clothing for both men and women that has been made popular in North America through its catalogue distribution. Finally, the term “eh”, stereotyped as distinctly Canadian, is relatively equivalent to the use of “yeah” in British dialogue.


End file.
